In The Quiet Hours
by Negolith
Summary: In the middle of the night while the rest of Atlantis sleeps, the team deals with the quiet hours in their own way.


_Author's Note: I was feeling a bit introspective when I wrote this. Real life is a pain in the arse sometimes._

**In the Quiet Hours**

Rodney wore a watch, but all it did was serve as a constant reminder that there just weren't enough hours in the day to do what he wanted to do. Staying up forty hours straight was a walk in the park, and in the middle of the night, when everyone else was wasting time sleeping, _that_ was when he got the most work done. Any interruptions during those hours usually involved alarms and explosions and certain impending doom and/or death, but on the whole, those incidents were actually quite rare and most nights passed quietly.

At the moment he was riding a high from his third pot of coffee – Sheppard had plastered so many biohazard stickers on the glass pot over the past few years it was hard to see if any was still left – and was running four different simulations on four different projects. He bounced from computer to computer checking displays and humming happily to himself, and the entire time he also carried a data pad and was running through calculations on that as well.

If Rodney could figure out a way to go without sleep and not, well, _die_, he'd do it. Just imagine all he could accomplish! But, unfortunately, his body needed to shut down and recharge fairly regularly, stupid design flaw, so he was going to have to put up with it and the inevitable crash later for now. No one save for a handful of _friends_ (and whoa, some days it absolutely floored him that there were people who really _did_ call him that) fully understood that his constant need to work wasn't an obsession – his brain just never shut off. So sleep was highly overrated, and the middle of the night was no different than the middle of the day as far as he was concerned.

Tonight he was in the zone – he had breakthroughs on several stalled projects and was too impatient to run them separately. One was for the 'jumper hyperdrive, and that simulation was seventy-eight percent complete and hadn't failed yet. He grinned crookedly as he studied the readouts. "Hey, Radek, I think it just … may…." He glanced around and remembered the Czech had wandered off to bed _hours_ before. It hadn't seemed that long ago. He almost called him on the radio, but glanced at his watch and decided he could wait until Radek got up in, oh, four hours or so.

His grin returned as he happily rocked back and forth, heel to toe, and scrolled through more data, then moved onto the next project. He did pause long enough to set a reminder to call Radek right at six, then went back to work with a pleased little _hmm_.

-oOo-

Torren yawned, made a contented little part squeak, part sigh, and pursed his lips and sucked a few times as if he was still nursing. Teyla smiled and kissed the top of his head, the scent of milk and warm clean baby making her sigh just as contentedly but without the tiny squeak. Now that he had adjusted to the noisy bright world around him and was no longer frightened by the strangeness of it all, their link was reestablished and as strong as ever. He no longer had to cry to let her know he was hungry, or needed changing – now she just knew. It made these middle of the night feedings so much easier, especially for Canaan. She would simply wake up, most times not even disturbing him, and took care of their son.

Teyla had never told Canaan she enjoyed these quiet moments in the middle of the night with Torren. She would listen to his thoughts and dreams, which at this point were still nothing more than sensory perceptions and swirls of color, and it would help her forget for awhile the troubles of the Pegasus Galaxy – the Wraith, the plague, Michael…. She put her forehead against Torren's and frowned, and he made a small mewling cry in his sleep.

"Shh, my heart. You are safe," Teyla murmured and sent soothing images his way – the sound of rain on the ocean, the image of Athos in the spring and the smell of fresh turned soil, the sound of laughter of her team….

She let the feelings that welled up then overflow into her son and he stretched and made the pleased little sound again. She snuggled Torren closer, his head tucked under chin, and closed her eyes for a moment as she listened to his contented baby dreams. Canaan shifted closer to her as well, murmured something in his sleep that only his subconscious could translate, and was gently breathing into her neck a moment later. His arm was draped across her, his hand resting on Torren's feet, but for some reason it did not feel as comforting to Teyla as it should.

She knew that deep down Canaan was frightened of her link with her son. She had told him how it helped her control a Wraith Queen, and how it almost cost both of them their lives. He had the gift as well, and he could sense his son, but the connection was nothing like hers, and there were times she could see in his eyes that he was a bit … overwhelmed by it all. But he was a good man, and he did the best he could despite his own lingering fears about his conversion and any side effects. And he truly did love her. He did – she had no doubt of that.

But some nights, in the quiet hours when Atlantis slept, she sometimes imagined another arm draped protectively over her, and how different things might have been.

Teyla carefully moved Canaan's arm and gracefully extricated herself from between the two sleepers. She scooped up Torren and set him back in his own bed. He made a few sounds, but once he was covered in the soft blankets he stuck his fist in his mouth and was sleeping peacefully again. Teyla returned to bed and was enveloped by Canaan. This time he seemed to ask a question in the mysterious sleep language and she replied softly, "Go back to sleep." He pulled her closer, murmured an assent into her hair, and did just that.

The windows were cracked and Teyla listened to both the rain fall on Atlantis and the soft breathing of her lover into her hair for some time before she fell asleep.

-oOo-

It took close to a year for Ronon to feel comfortable in Atlantis. He spent a lot of those first nights sleeping on random balconies just because he wasn't used to a roof over his head, and a lot of other nights just wandering the quiet corridors because he couldn't sleep at all. Things did get better, eventually, and he was able to sleep in his own quarters and actually feel comfortable about it. But nightmares still snapped him wide awake some nights, the scream of Wraith darts echoing in his head, and it would take him several hours to go back to sleep, if he could.

Then they lost Carson, and not too long after that Elizabeth, and the midnight wanderings returned. He would check out the still unmapped areas of the city, explore the nooks and crannies and the piles of useless junk the Ancestors left behind. The Earthlings found this crap fascinating – he just thought of it as garbage left behind by a defeated race. So he just wandered aimlessly, making his own internal map of the city, and poked through the remains of a race that thought themselves gods but turned out to be every bit as mortal as everyone else wiped out by the Wraith.

Then came the night he found the art gallery, and his wanderings ceased.

McKay and Sheppard made fun of the painting he brought back from Sateda. Yes, it wasn't done very well, but it did commemorate a famous battle that unified all of Sateda, and it was from _his_ world, _his_ people. But what his teammates didn't know was that he'd always had a love for art. Well, no – he suspected Teyla understood. She never teased him about the painting. Melena teased him, but only to point out he had the heart of a warrior, but the soul of an artist, and from her it was _never_ insulting. He secretly envied Major Lorne and his ability to paint – that was something he couldn't do – and he knew the man caught hell from the other Marines for it. One of these days he'd have to set them straight, but for now he'd just sit back and quietly admire the man's talent.

Now when he was restless in the middle of the night he would go directly to the gallery. When he first found it the door opened for him, and he had his gun drawn as he stepped in. The lights came up and he blinked stupidly a few times as he processed what he was seeing. A lot of the sculptures had been knocked over, no doubt from events over the past few years, and shattered pieces of stone and ceramic littered the floor. Some metal pieces survived their tumble, and very few items still remained on their pedestals. He just wandered through the debris that first night and barely saw a quarter of gallery. Decompression and the cold of deep space wasn't kind to the paintings, but most things in cases seemed to fare a lot better. On other levels he'd later find books of prints and woodcuts and art history he would pour through for hours on end, but on that first night there was one sculpture in particular that caught his attention. He stood and stared at it for close to an hour, and in every trip back he always ended his visit at the same spot.

The stone the piece was carved from was white with hair fine occlusions in red and black and was polished so smooth that after all these years it still seemed to glow with an inner light. It was a nearly life sized man, a warrior, in his last moments of life. He was nude, on the ground, but one arm was still holding him up as he fought to live. Every tendon and vein and muscle in that arm was visible as he strained to keep himself upright – you could damn near see it shaking with the effort – and Ronon swore he could see the slide of muscle and skin over ribs as he drew in one labored breath after another. The man's head was hanging, but the expression on his face was one of raw determination and pure defiance.

It was an expression he'd seen on Sheppard's face far too many times lately. And no doubt his team had seen it on his as well.

Whenever he came to the gallery, he'd end his visit just sitting and staring at the warrior. The only time he ever dared to touch it was to brush some dust and debris away, but that was it. Anytime he closed his eyes and imagined the sculpture his mind always saw it in flesh and blood, not in the pale translucent stone it was carved from.

And when he left the gallery to return to his own quarters, face drying and eyes burning, he always had the same thought – he hoped that when he died, his own death was so honorable and noble that it would be captured in a work of such exquisite beauty that it could still move people millennia later.

-oOo-

John sat bolt upright, his heart hammering so hard he could feel every beat shake his entire body. He scrubbed at his face until the echoes of the dream disappeared then glanced at his clock. Not quite three hours – a new record. Since he knew he'd never fall back asleep now, he threw back the covers, pulled on his running shoes, put his radio in his ear, and got up. He threw a flannel shirt on over his t-shirt, shoved a fleece blanket and a couple of Buds in a duffle, and left his quarters.

He used to go to a tower on the east pier that had a perfect view of the city on these nights when the dreams got too bad, but that had been wiped out on their trip through the asteroid field. He had a new spot now on the north east pier – he called it the Penthouse because it was some Ancient's posh little pad at the top of one of the undamaged towers. It had a huge covered balcony onto which he'd dragged out a deep, cushy chair and the Ancient equivalent of an ottoman. So far he was sure no one had discovered his quiet spot, and he hoped it remained that way – his. Even so, he still locked the door to the Penthouse whenever he was there and when he left.

John flopped down into the chair, popped a beer, and stretched one long leg out. Even after five years he still could not believe how beautiful Atlantis was at night. He'd seen many cities on several continents, but none could even compare.

And none of them sang like she did.

He never noticed it until they had been in the city for several months. Oh, because of his gene he was aware of the presence that was Atlantis hovering over his shoulder, watching him. And he could feel it even more when he was in the chair, but other than that, that was about it. Just a giant looming _thing_ forever in the back of his head.

Things changed, however, when he tried to turn into a bug.

He suspected it was because of all the down time he had just lying there, pumped full of drugs to keep him from writhing in agony and trying not to rip his own skin off. It was during a particularly bad night, the mere touch of the sheets were hell, where every inhale was fire and acid, and every exhale a whimper, when he became aware of the singing in the back of his mind. It was high, crystal clear, and very feminine There were words he did not understand, but he could understand their intent. It was soothing, comforting, a song to distract him from his current agony. He latched onto it like a drowning man and let it keep him afloat above his sea of pain until he fell asleep, and in his dreams the song continued and he got his first real night's sleep since the whole ordeal began.

After that he was very aware of Atlantis and her song. The power running through her frame was the baseline – a slow steady pulsing beat not much different than a heartbeat – that grounded everything with a certainty that she was here and alive and as steady as a mountain. He often wondered – if she was running on three full ZPM's, would that tempo change? He suspected it probably wouldn't. The melody and middle tones were her systems, and even though pieces were missing it still formed a whole that was amazing. When things were running smoothly it made him think of Creedence or the Eagles for some odd reason. Comfort rock – good beat, not too fast, not too slow, and lyrics that would bring a smile to your face and get your foot tapping. When things were going bat shit crazy or a system was down and affecting pretty much everything else, definitely metal or punk. And the day the real Carson died …. John always felt that song was a private one he accidentally overheard, and the echo still made his heart ache.

And above it all, in a high clear voice, was Atlantis herself. It was hard to describe that voice – the closest he had ever come was to compare it to water running across crystal chimes – and the words she did sing were incomprehensible to him. But most times she just sang for the sake of music – no words, just voice lifting in joyous abandon. When the city was in turmoil, she wailed like that woman on Dark Side of the Moon, but when things were going smoothly, like now, it was a contented, lazy free-flowing hum. After they took the city back from the Replicators, her song was so loud and triumphant he had a splitting headache by the time he sank down in pure exhaustion on the nearest soft surface to sleep.

On some of the nights when the nightmares attacked with a vengeance, John would bring his guitar out and accompany her. He would listen, then start with a few hesitant notes and chords, and soon he'd get a feel for the current melody and join in. The song mutated constantly, and some nights all he'd play was an occasional note now and then, a chord here, a bit of melody there. But most of the time what came out was intricate, almost classical Spanish in nature, and wove between the notes and singing he heard in the back of his head with an intimacy that was born from long familiarity. His fingers would dance along the strings and sang a song of passion and regret, courage and defiance, longing and loneliness. He would play for minutes or hours, until the calluses on his fingers ached and he couldn't render another note out of them, his face wet and exhaustion pouring out of him like the music before.

On those night Atlantis accompanied him on his own song.

He didn't bring his guitar tonight because it was raining pretty hard. Between the sound of the rain, Atlantis humming happily in the back of his head, and the second beer, John could feel his eyelids actually starting to droop. He pulled the blanket out, slouched down in the chair, flopped both feet up, and got comfy. He took a moment to set his watch alarm so he could meet Ronon for their run, then pulled the blanket up to his chin.

John smiled contentedly as his eyes closed and his home sang to him, and he was pretty sure she'd keep the nightmares away until morning.

_End Note: Ronon's statue is based off of a real statue, "The Dying Gaul", a piece from the Greek classical period. Saw it in an art history class as a Frosh in college, and never forgot it._


End file.
